


Bad Places

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer
Genre: Aftermath, Canon Bisexual Character, Character Study, Drinking, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, One Shot, Post Feast of Friends, Sad, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to cope with Gaz' death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Places

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, I don't own Hellblazer or Constantine. If I did, John wouldn't have been straight-washed in the show. Seriously, you don't straight-wash canon queer characters, argh!

He signalled the bartender for another drink, lifting his still half-full glass, contemplating it. Whatever it contained, he was sure even his own piss tasted better - yes, he'd tried that a few times, for a spell or a dare, either way he'd been drunk enough for his memory to be hazy - but as long as it burned running down his throat and numbed the thoughts circling through his head it'd do.

The room started spinning slowly, a sudden onset of vertigo nearly had him falling from his chair flat on his arse. Nearly. Wouldn't do from him now to get kicked out, would it? He'd long lost count of the number of drinks he'd slugged, he didn't remember where he was, these kind of places always smelled the same, a nauseating combination of stale beer and cigarette smoke mixed with urine and puke, and he was certain that at this point he couldn't walk in a straight line if he tried. John downed that drink in one go and waved for another.

Because Gary's screams as his body consumed itself still echoed through his skull. Because he still smelled the blood trickling from the containment markings, leaving small spots of colour on the white linen. Because the black soil from where he'd dug that grave still clung in dark rings to the skin underneath his fingernails.

Because his hand still ached from where he'd held Gary's until the end and beyond, until it had grown cold in his, limp then stiff then limp again. Gaz, while writhing in agony, agony  _John_ was responsible for, had gripped his hand so tightly one of the bones had snapped, leaving it swollen and bruised. A pathetic part of him desperately wished it would stay this way, wished for the bruise never to fade, the bone never to heal, the pain never to stop, because then there'd be something _left_ , something Gaz had caused, a mark he left just like John had cut his into his skin.

He looked at his glass and frowned as he found it empty again. It took a second for his arm to cooperate before he could signal the bartender again. Said bartender was a man in his late forties, salt-and-pepper hair and a bit scruffy looking, but fit. On any other day John might've tried to get into his pants.

"Don't you think you've had enough there, buddy?" His voice was gentle and concerned.

John leered at him through his eyelashes. "Nah, I'm alright, mate. I can hold me liquor." He winked for good measure.

The other shrugged. "Brits. Suit yourself. What're you doing this far from home?"

"That is a _very_ long story." His own voice was rough from days of disuse. The bartender audibly dragged a stool over and sat down, gesturing for John to start talking.

"You look like you need someone to talk to. I've got time."

John forced a husky laugh from his throat, bitter and hollow. "Not _that_ much time, believe me."

"Alright. Then why don't you tell me what sorrows you're trying to drown?"

He resolutely ignored the stinging in his eyes at this train wreck of thought. Gaz was gone. "One of me oldest mates just died." John answered, voice as bitter and empty as his laugh a few seconds ago had been. He emptied the entire glass with a single gulp this time.

Not just one of them. Gaz had been his oldest friend. He remembered meeting him back when he still bothered with showing up at school, back then Gary Lester had been a quiet kid, a shy, scrawny boy sitting in the back at class, nicely clad and spoiled by his oh so loving parents, but even then with that glimmer in his eyes, that hunger for _more_. A hunger he'd early tried assuage with drugs, but they could never satisfy him. John could.

He guessed that was what Gary had seen in him, in his malnourished, bruised and snarky teenage self, when he'd grabbed his arm that first time to draw him to the toilets, where he'd shown him the porn magazine he'd found in his brother's room. They'd been fast friends, though he'd soon realised that Gary only brought those magazine for John's benefit, he himself not showing any interest in the busty women pictured naked. That was when their stolen minutes together became filled with sloppy kisses and later bad, fumbling hand jobs instead of dirty pictures.

They'd become each other's firsts when they'd been, what, fourteen? It had always been too fast and too rough, neither really knowing what they were doing and each time John hadn't been able to sit comfortably for a day or two afterwards, but for that time Gary's hunger had been stilled. Then, a few months later, John had escaped from his father, left Liverpool without a glance back. John Constantine didn't do goodbyes.

When he'd met Gaz again a few years later it was to find him getting high pretty much constantly. They had fallen back into their old routine almost naturally soon after founding Mucous Membrane. The band had been utter bollocks, but Gaz believed in him. Gaz had always believed in him, more than that, he took to practically worshiping the ground John walked on and John repaid him by giving him what he craved to satsify his hunger for more. Dragged him down into the occult with him.

Then there'd been the clusterfuck by the name of Newcastle and his friend had fallen back into the drugs, deeper than ever, unable to turn to John to sate him any longer. Yet he'd still believed in him, admired him. Loved him.

_A mage, like John Constantine._

How ironic that he'd met his end by a hunger demon.

John was ripped from his memories by the refilled glass being pushed towards him and looked up to see the bartender filling a glass for himself. "Shit. I'm sorry, man."

Never having been one to control his urges, John took a moment to school his pained expression back into one of cold indifference and, once successful, lifted his head, waiting for the older man to meet his eyes, his voice cold and uncaring. "I killed him."

A look of bewilderment crossed the other's features and John could observe the exact moment the man realised he was telling the truth, realised that this piss drunk, short, British bloke sitting in front of him was the most dangerous person he'd probably ever meet. He gave a saccharine smirk at the bartender's gulp.

"I'm sorry, sir," The man's voice shook. "I think you should leave now."

He chuckled coldly and stood, swaying for a second. "Yeah, I probably should. It bloody _reeks_ in here." He left without paying, knowing the bartender wouldn't dare to call him back to do so.

Once outside, he lit one of his Silk Cuts and started walking down the dirty alley he found himself in, still clueless to where he was. When he came by a supermarket he entered, a couple of minutes, a few words to hypnotise the cashier and a click of his fingers to disable the cameras later leaving with a bottle of cheap vodka, alternating between taking gulps of it and taking a pull on his cigarette.

After stumbling along for an indefinite amount of time he started to recognise his surroundings, realising he was a fair bit away from the mill house and pulled his phone from his pocket with a sigh, pausing just before pressing on Chas' name. Right, Chas was visiting his daughter. He skimmed over his contacts in search for an alternative and it suddenly struck him how many of the numbers he'd saved in there wouldn't be answered ever again. He paused at one particular name.

Rose had been him a good friend for a while. It laid quite a while back now, but then he'd always called her when he was wallowing in self-loathing.

_"Why do I always end up in bad places?"_

She hadn't missed a single beat before answering: _"Don'cha see, John? It's_ you _what makes 'em bad."_

He supposed she'd been right. If he hadn't been, his mother and twin would be alive. Maybe his father wouldn't have become the abusive drunk he knew. Astra's soul wouldn't be tortured in Hell for all eternity. _Gaz would still be alive._

No. As far as he knew his father had been like that before, Astra would still have been tortured at the Casanova Club until she'd unconsciously summoned Notfulthing and Gaz would have sooner or later died of an overdose.

Yet that pathetic part of him couldn't help but flood his damned soul with guilt.

 _Gary_ loved _you! He wanted to be just like you! Thank god he's not!_

Well, Zed probably wouldn't pick him up now. He'd be surprised if he ever heard from her again after this, it'd certainly be better for her. So John would walk back, maybe he'd even find the opportunity to start a good fight with some of the shady characters roaming the streets at this time of the night. Getting beaten up was definitely preferable to having to think about these last few days. Sometimes those people tried to humiliate and break him by taking him, one by one. He'd deserve it. This and worse.

Yeah, he definitely earned his place in Hell, if not for Astra definitely for Gary, for betraying him, his friend, his Gaz.

For a moment he imagined he could see him, watching from the opposite side of the street, his sad, blue, wondering eyes following him.

Gaz _had_ loved him. And in this pathetic little part of him, the one that longed for his hand to never heal, the one that turned every breath and heartbeat into agony, the one overwhelming him with guilt, the one that would damn his soul ten times over just to feel Gaz' too soft lips on his one last time and apologise, this part he loathed more than any other - his _heart_ \- John knew that he'd loved him too.

**Author's Note:**

> That conversation with Rose is a quote from Hellblazer #152 'Good Intentions'.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, I'd be eternally grateful!


End file.
